


With Cords of Red

by voodoochild



Category: Firefly
Genre: Multi, Post-Serenity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-19
Updated: 2010-03-19
Packaged: 2017-10-08 03:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/72164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inara knows one doesn't come between Zoe and Mal. Knowledge and practice, of course, are two different things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Cords of Red

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the words_fly_up challenge, to the quote _"Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall"_, from Shakespeare's Measure for Measure. Title from Jeff Buckley's version of the "Corpus Christi Carol".

_"Well, heaven forgive him! And forgive us all!  
Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:  
Some run from brakes of vice, and answer none,  
And some condemned for a fault alone."  
_  
\- William Shakespeare, "Measure for Measure" (2.1.41-44)

~*~*~*~

You'll never come between them.

It's the lesson you learned the first time you set foot on board Serenity, right after you were taught that Mal Reynolds absolutely loathed everything you stood for. Or that you thought you stood for - because Epoline Serra's daughter would never have been exposed to anything less than the cruelly glittering beauty of the Alliance.

You certainly were not familiar with the kind of horrors Mal and Zoe had been through in the war. The very same war that you watched unfold from the Training House on Sihnon, and turned the other way when they broadcast the shots of the Browncoat casualties over the Cortex. You saw them as nameless, faceless (because there usually wasn't enough of a face left) things, not people. But they were people. People that you would come to hear about as you sat up in the dining area, exchanging a bottle of what passed for whiskey and laughing loud enough to cover the tears that would start to fall.

Mother would be appalled, of course, at you not only drinking with a couple of Browncoats (still loyal after seven years of Unification, when you were not), but that you sometimes enjoy the cheap whiskey. It's got all the kick of a glass of real Sihnon sake, and none of the expectations. You don't check the label every time you look at the bottle, wondering if it's from the company of one of your old clients. You don't savor the taste out of custom and six years of drilled training.

You don't even care that it tastes razor-sharp. It's more like one of Mal's cracks about your profession that way. It reminds you of him, as well as of the lethal-looking knives Zoe tucks into her boots. It used to be that she only brought them out when it seemed things might turn out a bit tricky. Extra protection, in case she had to give up her gun for some reason.

She carries them all the time now, and Mal pretends - as you all do - not to notice.

You know he does, though. Catch him watching her out of the corner of his eye, but he won't say anything. He's been treading lightly with her ever since Miranda and the funeral. Everyone has, really, but Mal most of all. You don't have to be skilled at reading people - even though you are, of course - to know he feels responsible for what happened to Wash.

And you also know no one's about to argue with him on that point. Heroes get other people killed, you've come to understand in this year and four months on Serenity.

And this is a ship full of heroes. Not all of them know it, but they are. Simon, sacrificing his career, family, and way of life for his sister. River, using the skills that the Alliance drilled into her brain to save their lives on that little moon. Jayne, for all his half-hearted mutinies and greed, holding the line and looking after the girls these past few weeks like a hawk. Kaylee, having faith in them all, and learning that she couldn't count on a white knight to come to save her.

But it's always been Mal and Zoe who you, and the rest of the crew, look to. Even after they fell from grace, but still going to the edge of reason to keep their people safe.

Mal, with his easy smile that doesn't reach his eyes. Who always seems to get caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea (or the deep blackness of space), but you'd never know it from his sense of humor. That arrogant grin of his, and the way he knows his ship inside and out despite not having a clue how to fix her. His thrice-damnable puritan attitude toward women and sex that causes him to repeatedly call you the one name you swore you'd never tolerate.

And Zoe, with her spit-polished, brusque demeanor. The woman warrior who knows what it's like to stare death in the face, and who still trembles (only her hands, laced behind her back where only you can see) when she walks onto the bridge. Wash always called her his goddess, but you know he was right. Athena, grey eyes replaced with deep brown, leading you all into the valley of the shadow of death, but who never forgot her first valley. And who never deserted the man who stood by her side.

You'd never admit it, but you've envied her from the moment you first met her. A husband who meant the world to her, and who accepted every inch of her, even when he didn't know what it was that he was accepting. An inner tranquility that you, with all your meditation and prayers to Buddha, can never seem to attain. And an understanding with Malcolm Reynolds that defied all explanation except that there was no explanation for it.

You wonder what it would take to develop the silent shorthand Mal has with Zoe. You find yourself not really caring if it takes a war.

~*~*~*~*~

As it turns out, you're not the only one who sees how delicately Mal is handling his second-in-command. River approaches you one morning before breakfast, drawing her bare legs and feet up onto a chair as she watches you make tea. You wonder why she's haunting the dining area and the bridge, instead of the infirmary like she used to. It takes two inquiries on your part, and the span of the boiling kettle for her to answer you.

"Simon and Kaylee shine too bright to see the shadows. Jayne doesn't believe in what he can't see. Mal and I have always seen, but only now learned to believe. She sees now - doesn't want to believe."

You know she's referring to Zoe in her last statement. You're not Simon (or even Mal, who for all his complaining actually understands River fairly well) and so you can't read between the lines.

"Not lines, _jie jie_. Not linear. Can't be linear anymore. Have to think in patterns."

As much as it makes you smile to be a big sister again - all those girls on Highgate calling you _jie jie_, and rolling their eyes as you corrected their calligraphy - you still half wonder if River hasn't been damaged by her psychosis more than any of you realize. Simon says she's cured, and he should know, but you're not quite sure. River still speaks in those half-riddles that tend to make perfect sense in hindsight.

"What's perfect isn't always what makes sense. Takes three notes to make a chord, but two to play a duet. Can be a symphony or just noise, can't know until you play."

It shouldn't surprise you that River knows music terminology. She was raised on Osiris, after all. She studied the same lessons on history, mathematics, literature, music, dance, and technology that you did on Sihnon, before you attended the Training House. After only eight months out here with River, you've forgotten that. You never believed Mother when she said that people change out in the black. All you have to do is look at River or Simon to remember.

All you should have had to do was look in the mirror.

~*~*~*~

You're freshening up the shuttle for your client tomorrow when the chime cuts through the air. It's obviously not Mal - _hundan_ still refuses to knock, and you're getting tired of telling him - so you replace the vase of orchids on the table and call out an invitation to enter.

Your breath catches when you realize it's Zoe.

She's dressed-down. You can't remember the last time you've seen her in anything but the double layer of armor she favors. Leather vests, pants, and boots over the clink of chain mail just serving as more protection against anything and everything. But she's wearing that pink tank top of hers, an old pair of sweatpants you somehow know used to belong to Mal (they're not bright or short enough to have been Wash's), and her hair's tied back in a braid.

You stumble over your words, offering her tea that you know she won't drink. Something about Zoe has always rattled you. Probably because she's so unshakable. You were shocked to see her lose it during the battle - the one place she's always remained better than all of you - that you begin to wonder if she'd even cried over Wash. You suspect she has, alone in her (their) bunk, where there's no one to hear. It's only been a few weeks, after all, and you've never exactly been an expert on grief.

She sits opposite you on the couch, studying the upholstery, your trunk, the paintings on the walls - anything but you. You don't know why she's so nervous around your shuttle. Always has been. You and she have spoken easily in the cargo bay or around the dinner table. Occasionally on the bridge or in the hallways as well. But your shuttle, your home, is the one place where words don't come easily, even to you.

Zoe starts speaking, hesitantly at first, and at the first few words out of her mouth, you know what she's here for. Your job doesn't just entail lying on your back. It takes a good deal of listening ability, because people would be surprised at just how many of your clients pay you for simply listening.

Others have come before her - Book, Kaylee, Simon, even Mal and Jayne, at times - but never Zoe. You don't think you've ever heard her be this honest, this free, even with Mal, and that sends a rush of something like satisfaction through your veins.

Because Zoe is sitting there, head bowed, but the words still flowing from her like she couldn't stop them if her life depended on it. She confesses her fears (_one day I'm gonna wake up, and Mal will be gone too_), her despair (_I can't sleep in my bunk, it's so empty, and Wash isn't there to fill it anymore_), her suspicions (_sometimes I wonder if River knew what would happen, and didn't tell me_), and most of all, her uncertainty (_what's going to happen if I slip up on a job and get someone else killed_?).

You set aside your teacup - hibiscus and berry today, from your private stores - and slide onto the seat next to her. You don't even try using all the patented platitudes you might use on one of your clients, because you know Zoe will see right through it. You opt for the truth, because you try to stick to it when it comes to Serenity's crew.

"I've seen a lot out here in the black, you know. But I have never met anyone like you. You are one of the strongest women - the strongest people - I have ever met, Zoe, and you are going to survive this. Yes, it's going to take time. Yes, it's going to take courage. And no, you cannot do it alone. You have to believe, Zoe. Believe that each day you live has a purpose, and that each day you had with Wash brought you closer to that purpose."

She finally looks you in the eye, and you almost don't even realize it - she's crying.

Zoe is silent as she weeps, and you know she wouldn't have it any other way. No sobs, screams, or sniffles from her; better no one be able to hear her pain. She is even one of those rare women who can shed tears without getting puffy and red in the face. She is beautiful that way.

She reaches out blindly, and you take her hand in yours. It's calloused from gun use, but the nails are expertly manicured. You wonder how she maintains it out in the black. And then you chide yourself for focusing on manicures instead of the woman holding fast to you. Zoe doesn't move closer, but you know she takes comfort in the contact. You see the strain ease from her, worry lines smoothing out as the tears track down her face.

You sit there with her, letting her build her walls back up. Like Mal, they're nearly visible, as much to keep people out as keeping herself in. You think that maybe the reason you can see them is because you've built your share around yourself. It takes a certain kind of strength to be a Companion, your instructors told you. One must be as strong on the inside as they are on the outside, honing the instincts and actions of both body and mind.

Sometimes you think Zoe would have made a good Companion. You've even laughed over the notion with her, but she's never thought you serious.

You are, but only when Mal isn't in earshot.

And speak of the devil.

You don't need to turn around to know he's there. Since he never knocks, you've learned to listen for his boot heels on the deck plates. You heard them distantly as you and Zoe were talking, but you'd put them out of your head when she began to cry. He stands in the doorway, hesitant to enter for once. You never thought you'd see the day.

He stops shuffling around and steps softly inside, looking first to Zoe, then to you. As formal as Zoe is casual in dress, he's still in his boots, shirt, and suspenders. You remember stifling laughter the first time you met him - no one wears suspenders anymore - but you're half-relieved now. You don't know if you could take both him and Zoe lowering their defenses.

"_Ai ya_, 'Nara - what in the gorram hell'd you say to her?"

It seems that he's finally noticed Zoe's tears. He's rounded the couch, one hand on her shoulder and glaring up at you like you're some grammar-school bully. Zoe shakes her head, and mumbles something about it not being your fault. Her speaking up has definitely staved off a potential argument, but then again, whenever you and Mal are in the same room is a potential argument.

And you notice something else as well: When Zoe speaks, you could be a footstool for all he cares. His attention is all for her, kneeling before her and wiping ineffectually at her face. He doesn't know how to react to tears, after all. You catch only part of what he murmurs to her, half-Chinese endearments and jokes that you've never been a part of. You've never, in the year and five months you've been on Serenity, seen him so unguarded as he is with Zoe right now.

Kaylee gets his easy laughter, his affectionate love. River gets his sharp mind, teaching her what he knows. Zoe's always had a claim on everything else.

So what does that leave you with?

~*~*~*~

She may be the focus of Mal's attention, but it is to you that Zoe looks. Her hand is still in yours, fingers idly tracing the edges of your palm. She turns your hand over, and, still ignoring Mal, brings it to her lips.

"_Xie-xie ni_, Inara."

She shouldn't be thanking you. Not for this miniscule amount of comfort. Not for all the times you've silently envied her connection with her husband and with Mal. Not for just standing idly by as she charged into battle and Mal wore his sins proudly for all to see.

It's almost as if she can hear you thinking, because she brings your clasped hands to touch your face. Delicately, reverently, she kisses you, the gratitude wordlessly pouring from her lips. You know she cannot express it any other way. Your eyes slip closed, breath exhaling in a sigh - there is no pretense here. No expectations, no demands, nothing but Zoe and you.

And Mal.

You hear his indrawn breath and the rustle of his clothes as he goes to stand, to leave. To walk away, like he always does. Leaving Zoe be, so he'll never have to see her leave him. Leaving you behind so he doesn't have to watch you leave him again. He's not going to get the chance this time.

Two hands reach out to him, one pale, one darker. Zoe's lips leave yours in a light brush, and you both turn to Mal. You wouldn't bet money on it, but you suspect Zoe and Mal have been in this position before. But you don't think they can cross the divide without a bridge.

You're pretty sure Wash had at least tried, once he got it through his head that Mal didn't want to take Zoe away from him. You don't know if you'll fare any better, but looking into brown-and-blue eyes, you want to try.

You look to Zoe first - she's the one you want to protect, and if it's too soon, you'll stop before you hurt her. And you have to try not to laugh at the thought of you protecting Zoe from anything. But her nod says she needs this - whether it be the contact, the intimacy, the connection, or the outlet. It says that she knows about your feelings for Mal, because how could she not? The entire damn galaxy probably knows by now.

All except for Malcolm Reynolds himself. Either that, or he's content to stick his head in the sand when it comes to you.

No longer. You rise to your feet, leaving Zoe curled up on the couch, and pull Mal to a standing position. He won't look at you or Zoe, but you deliberately intrude into his personal space, pulling his body to align against yours. Warm, solid, and oh so tense - you know he's probably either wondering what "wiles" you're going to use on him or hoping for an easy out. You'll give him neither, because you're tired of running in constant circles around him. This has to be as much his choice as yours.

Closing your eyes, you kiss him, breaking through the inches-thick tension that seems to separate you. He can't stop the groan that leaks from his mouth, or the reflexive slide of his hips against yours. You shudder - this is no perfectly rehearsed, choreographed dance of high-society. Mal Reynolds kisses like other men give thanks to a deity - wholeheartedly and without thought to propriety. You've always wondered what it would be like to bed him, but only in the privacy of your own thoughts. You don't think you'd have made the overture if Zoe weren't there. A perverse kind of blessing, because they're it for each other, husbands and lovers be damned.

And oh, it looks as if you are most certainly headed that way yourself.

They're going to kill you, a piece at a time, and you suspect that you may just go out with a smile and a gasp. Especially when you feel Zoe's leg snake between yours, and she pulls you to rest against her taller frame. Mal breaks off the kiss with another groan, and unwraps one arm from around your waist to brush Zoe's hair back from her forehead. They exchange a practically-telepathic glance, and lower their heads to press lips along either side of your neck.

You don't need to open your eyes to know which mouth is Mal's and which is Zoe's. Mal is on the right, all open-mouthed kisses and delicious sharp graze of teeth. Zoe is the left, hot breath and slow tease of tongue.

Somehow, you've ended up on the bed. You haven't the faintest idea how you got there, seeing as you were too busy unlacing Zoe's sweatpants as Mal eased your robe off your shoulders. It pools on the floor, alongside Mal's boots and suspenders, and Zoe's shirt, and you don't care. Because Zoe's mouth is on your breast, and Mal is doing wicked, wicked things with his hand, rubbing your clit through the silk panties.

They're both fairly vocal. You're not shocked over Zoe - you'd have to be deaf not to have heard her and Wash going at it - but Mal's rough shouts and pleas are a pleasant surprise. You are shocked that you're practically keening and begging, though to Mal, Zoe, Buddha, God, or something else, you're not entirely sure. You're making all manner of noises and words, and Mal and Zoe exchange smiles again over your shoulder.

You don't remember when the last of the clothing was stripped away and your hands steadied Zoe as she sank onto Mal.

But you'll never forget Mal's voice breathing your name in between broken Chinese and her name. You'll never forget your own daring as you cupped Zoe's breast in one hand and reached your other to where they were joined. You'll never forget Mal's curse as you touched him, or Zoe's dark laughter. You'll never forget Zoe's head falling back onto your shoulder as she rose and fell in one rhythm and shuddered to another.

They'd found their balance, their completion (always with each other), but like a magnet, they drew you in. Between Zoe's tongue on your _ni yin_ and Mal's blessedly strong and warm hands holding you down, holding you open, just holding you - you reach orgasm all too quickly.

As you hazily settle against your pillows to sleep - Mal curled into Zoe's back, her arm thrown securely over your stomach, and all blankets kicked to the bottom of the bed - you sleepily realize that you were right.

Coming between them is impossible. You've always known that, and you don't forget it now. No matter how hard you try, or how many times you sleep with them. They're interwoven, and breaking their stitching will just turn them from you - because what one feels, the other echoes. They are the double thump of a heartbeat, and you're not the fist that will stop their rhythm. You're not.

But you may just be the blood that flows between them.

**Author's Note:**

> _Jie-jie_ \- big sister  
> _Hundan_ \- jerk  
> _Ai ya_ \- dammit  
> _Xie-xie ni_ \- thank you  
> _Ni yin_ \- vagina (polite)


End file.
